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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29441778">when we all fall asleep, where do we go?</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/catscradyl/pseuds/catscradyl'>catscradyl</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Amnesia, Angst, Body Swap, Body Swap Ranboo, Consciousness Swapping, POV Ranboo (Video Blogging RPF), Pandora's Vault, Sleepwalking, The 'I'm you' line from Ranboo's nightmare hit me like a freight train, What if every time ranboo Ender-walks dream controls his body, Whatever the term for it is, basically the theory here, body swapping, but Ranboo ends up in the prison, perhaps</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 17:34:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,393</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29441778</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/catscradyl/pseuds/catscradyl</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>At night, Ranboo doesn't remember where he walks, but he always wakes up. He <i>always</i> wakes up and that's what matters the most.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>76</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Completed stories I've read</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>when we all fall asleep, where do we go?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Convenient to swap consciousness with someone who won't remember it, am I right?<br/>Body swap/consciousness swap Ranboo and Dream theory people come get y'all juice pspspspsps</p><p>(Title from <i>bury a friend</i> by Billie Eilish)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The clock on the wall showed the moon, the sun having already disappeared beneath the circular frame. Hunger gnawed at his middle, pressed like fingers into his gut and prodded angrily around at his midsection. He paced, chasing away the hollowed, hurting ache with repetitive steps that took him from the clock, to the cauldron, to the chest, and back. </p><p>Back and forth. Back and forth. His steps measured and careful and precise. He worried at his wrists, at the dull ache in them. Palpitated at his forearms and his shoulders, kneaded at the knots and the tension and rubbed the crick out of his neck with the roll of his knuckles. </p><p>His eyes darted to the slow encroach of the moon, the too slow ascent of it to the top of the clock frame. Willed it faster as the press of the walls wavered in his peripherals and his stomach cramped, demanding and incessant in the lances of pain it jabbed up and down the whole of him. Sighing, he stopped in front of the clock, nearly shook the device out of its lazy respite, and returned to pacing. </p><p>Obsidian and obsidian and obsidian and obsidian and every single block more obsidian. </p><p>It was maddening. Nearly enough to consider driving a nail under his eyes if only to stop seeing it. Instead, he paced. </p><p>"You're okay..." he muttered. "It's fine. It's just a dream. It's probably just a dream. None of this is real. I'm okay. You're okay." </p><p>He placed his hand on the wall, felt the rasping slide of unfeeling stone under it, and it was one of the most convincing nightmares he had ever had that was for sure. Rapping his knuckles against it, he shook out his hand at the sharp jab of pain that shot through his fingers and up his arm. It definitely <i>felt</i> real. </p><p>"It's not real. You're sleeping. You'll wake up soon. I-- I've probably been through this one a thousand times and don't remember. You just don't remember. It's fine. I'm fine. We're okay. You're okay..." </p><p>The words slipped from him, less coherent sentence more reassuring sound where it occupied all the empty space. The obsidian walls dulled them, blunted them against the absence of an echo, of any reverb, and he continued his pacing up and down the length of them. It was nine paces between each wall. Nine paces. <i>One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Ei--</i></p><p>He stopped in front of the clock, watched the moon steadily ticking towards the right, night drawing closer to its conclusion. Something about that made him giddy. Eager. </p><p>"It'll be over soon. You'll wake up soon and it'll all have just been a very bad dream..." he muttered with a nervous chuckle to punctuate it.</p><p>The clock churned away on the wall and he stood before it, wished there was some way to make it go faster. He reached out, tapped the little moon and the sharp sound of that swirled in his ears. It didn't budge though. Disappointment curled up heavy with the hunger. </p><p>And even the hunger felt real. It panged and pinched and pulled at him until he hunched over and wrapped his arms around himself. It all felt way too real...</p><p>The urge to record this, to write it down, to preserve it itched at his fingertips. But it was just a dream. He couldn't exactly take what he recorded here out with him once he woke up. That wasn't how dreams worked at all. </p><p>There were books though. In the chest. He cracked it open and peeked inside, rummaged through them. Wondered why they were specifically titled, why some of them had writing in them, how it was all so very precise and tangible. He couldn't exactly remember most of his dreams and he wasn't sure if they were ever this detailed. Nightmares always felt real when they happened though. Ended like impressions and stuck like burs, but even they faded too. </p><p>This was a very elaborate nightmare to say the least. </p><p>He commended his brain on its ability to craft so many tiny details into this one. Down to the way his hands didn't even look familiar, the way the weeping obsidian sounded, the way lethargy sapped at his limbs. The way he wished he had literally anything to eat. </p><p>He was <i>starving.</i></p><p>Plucking a plain covered book from the chest he cracked it open, filed through it in a quick <i>fwip</i> of pages. It was empty. Mostly. There was a single line on the first page, at the top. Oddly specific for a dream sequence, way too coherent for a night terror, and it sent his brow furrowing. </p><p><i>'thank you for visiting me badboyhalo!'</i> </p><p>He stared at the handwriting. Eyes flicking it over again and again and he fumbled for the ink and the quill at the bottom of the chest, hands shaking. </p><p>He wrote underneath it. </p><p><i>'It's just a dream.' </i> </p><p>The handwriting was different. It was different. It wasn't his handwriting, even in its similarities. He didn't know why his brain had made up someone else's penmanship to stain the page. </p><p>He dropped the book, rummaged for another, pulled every single one free from the chest and sprawled them out across the floor. He glanced to the clock, to where the moon had crawled further to the right, clockwise descent drawing closer and closer. He wasn't sure if he wanted it to slow down or go faster anymore. </p><p>"This is-- It's fine. I'm fine. It's nothing. It's just--" He swallowed. "It-- It's just a dream. You've seen plenty of people's handwriting. That's where it's from. Just something I've seen before. It has to be something I've seen before. It's not-- It--" </p><p>He snatched up the next book, flipped through the pages. </p><p><i>'he stopped visiting.'</i> </p><p>He flipped to the next page.  </p><p>
  <i>'ranboo'</i>
</p><p>His hands trembled. "This isn't-- This isn't-- There's no way this is-- I'm--" </p><p>He frantically pawed at the page, nearly crumpled it in his haste to get the next one and he stared, blank faced at it.  </p><p><i>':)'</i> </p><p>The book slipped from his fingers. </p><p>"What is this? What is-- Where-- How-- I--" He breathed sharp and harsh and like his chest was stuffed full of heated nails. </p><p>"This isn't-- This--" He clamped a hand over his mouth and breathed through the seams of his fingers. </p><p>The clock showed the moon approaching the edge of the mock horizon line. Night was slipping from his grasp like silt and he needed more time, he needed more time to figure out what was going on. He just needed more time. He just-- He wasn't sure why he needed more time. </p><p>He scrambled to his feet, nearly tripped over the pile of books and stumbled for the clock on the wall. It would do nothing to manually reverse it, he knew that, knew that somehow, nearly instinctually. </p><p>If it was a nightmare he would wake up eventually. That's how dreams worked. They were never permanent. They always went away, faded, crumbled apart eventually. No matter how convincing or deceitful or tangible they seemed. It was only a matter of time. </p><p>He pulled the clock off the wall, nearly bent the frame in two under his fingers, hands trembling. The lava he had ignored seemed enticing now, alluring in its makeup, sirenous where it crooned. He clambered over the barrier towards it and the heat immediately snapped at his skin, stung at his arms and face like he had stood under a rainstorm. </p><p>"If you die in your dreams, you're supposed to wake up. If-- If you die, you'll wake up. That's-- That's how it works. That's how it's <i>supposed</i> to work. It's supposed to--" He trailed off, clock in hand as he stared at the molten rock. "This has to work." </p><p>He backpedaled a few paces, tossed the clock in, listened to the immediate pop and fizzle. Watched the starved way it devoured the device, the burning stench far too vivid and the flare or fire and heat and then the quiet snuffing into wisps of smoke and nothing, all more than he could think to conjure. He breathed out, one heavy, shaking sigh, inhaled and did it again. </p><p>"Okay. <i>Okay.</i> It has to work. No-- No, It <i>will</i> work. You'll wake up. You'll wake up. You'll wake up. Come on-- Just do it. Just--" </p><p>He more stumbled and fell into the lava than any kind of running jump or controlled walk into it. He had only fallen into lava a handful of times. Usually with armor that protected him from the worst of it or potions that worked like artificial skin. This was raw, instantaneous, like he had swallowed blasting powder and ignited it inside of himself. It hurt, it burned, it-- </p><p>He woke up, to the rasp of obsidian under his palms and against his cheek, ribs smarting like he had slammed into a wall. He scrambled up, eyes darting up to the opening in the ceiling, skin aching and itchy where he rubbed at it. The feeling of melting alive churned around under every inch of him and he scratched at it, drug his nails over his wrists and his forearms and stared at the lava. </p><p>He hadn't woken up. Well, not where he had wanted to at least. He stared at his palms, all wrong, the wrong shape and wrong size and wrong color and everything about them not the way they were supposed to be. </p><p>He didn't think twice about trying again. Barely hesitated the third time. By the fourth time he was trembling from head to toe. </p><p>The fifth time never happened. He stayed on the floor, panting and shivering and staring at the far wall where he had been thrown to the ground, tossed out of death like it didn't even matter. He wrapped his arms around his middle and curled into himself. </p><p>Everything hurt. His stomach so empty it felt like he was being devoured alive from the inside. The stench of burnt flesh and blood and bones sat in the cell, heavy and thick and nearly sending him gagging. It didn't stave off the hunger though.</p><p>The hunger was half of him and the whole of him and all he could fathomably consider. More painful than stepping into lava. More painful than slamming into the floor again and again and--</p><p>He shakily climbed to his feet. Eyed the lava, eyed the clock, where the moon was disappearing, barely even a sliver left before the sun began to rise. Dawn hurtling into being somewhere beyond these walls. </p><p>"It has to work eventually. It has to. It has to. It has to. You'll wake up. You'll wake up. You'll--" He stumbled a step forward. "I'll wake up. I'll-- I just have to-- I have to--"  </p><p>He shuddered, vision flickering in and out like a dead channel, static buzzing in his ears. A low ringing whine kicked up and grew and grew. It-- </p><p>He crumpled like every string holding him up had been cut at once. Vision blurring and blackening around where the clock showed the sun inching into view and the moon disappearing and--</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>----</p>
</div>He jolted up, eyes darting to and fro, scanning over the hints of vague sunlight scattering the landscape. He was outside.<p>He must have slept-walk again last night. </p><p>Or, more aptly,<i>Ender-walked</i>. Either way, his feet had dragged him along somewhere he didn't remember and while that wasn't always so abnormal, it was uniquely chilling to think he hadn't been in total control of his body wherever he had ended up. </p><p>He picked himself up off the grass and snow, the slight sting at his fingertips and forearms tingling where the frozen water slid against his skin. Scrubbing it off on his trousers, he picked his way back home, only stumbling in his steps once. When he noticed dirt under his fingernails and sticking to his hands, that the pickaxe at his side was dulled and chipped, the handle starting to just barely split from the head.</p><p> It shouldn't show that much wear and tear. He had just repaired it. Unless he had somehow Ender-walked mining out an entire vein of something in a single night, it shouldn't look that bad off. </p><p>He rubbed at his arms, eyes darting for dawn where the sun creeped up the sky. </p><p>He really needed to get some food. He wasn't hungry, not hunched over starving or anything, of course, but the thought that he always <i>could</i> be wriggled and wormed its way around in the back of his head. It was always good to have a backup stash. Just in case. Just in case. He could never be too cautious after all. He would extend the crops when he got back, find another cow maybe, till more soil and lay out more growing plots. Harvest more for the chests and rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat. </p><p>Rinse and repeat…</p><p>The map wouldn't show where he had gone. He had tried that. It didn't work. He wasn't sure why it didn't work. It was supposed to track where he went, but maybe it had something to do with the way he had written in Ender in Sam's contracts. Maybe it had something to do with how people told him he didn't always speak to them when they found him wandering and consciously unconscious. </p><p>Maybe it had something to do with that. The most he had penned down about it all was the recollections of others. And for all the world he wished he could be a fly on the wall in whatever room or cave or place he stumbled his way into after he went to sleep. </p><p>The sun steadily trailed its way higher into the sky, the sunlight turned harsh where it reflected off the snow. He didn't have a clock, but he knew it would show the sun creeping further and further towards its apex. Once midday hit, it would be right back into dusk again soon after, to when a clock would sit at the halfway point, neither the sun nor moon dominating the frame. An endless, looping cycle of one chasing the other around, again and again and again...</p><p>He would go to bed tonight and wake up somewhere else tomorrow.</p>
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